Page 22 of All Our Almosts

“You could go to the library. Or I can lend you something when you’re done. I have books, you know.” He points towards his chest. “Editor.”

A thought hits me like a minor epiphany. I look around the apartment again to make sure I’m not out of my mind before I say, “You know what? I’m just realizing that you don’t have any bookshelves in here.”

“They’re all in my room.” He nods his head towards the closed bedroom door. “Never know when I’ll have a middle-of-the-night reading emergency.”

“Ah, of course. Well in that case, yeah, thanks. I’ll take you up on that.”

I’m opening back to my place in the book when he asks, “Are you ready to tell me what’s bothering you?”

“Nothing’s bothering me,” I reply, confused.

“You said the board meeting was stressful.”

Right. I forgot I mentioned that. And I kind of assumed he would forget too.

(Elliot would have.)

“Oh, it was nothing, really. Some of the trustees are just annoying, but I don’t need to whine about it all night.”

“I bet Lia would have them killed for you,” Andy suggests, in a small nod to our ongoing bit about Lia’s relatives being in the Italian mob (they’re not) and a large nod to her abrasive personality.

“No,” I chuckle, “it’s not all that serious. Honestly, most of it was my fault.”

“I doubt that.”

“No really.” I put the book down on the coffee table then turn to face him, sitting cross-legged on the couch. He mirrors my position, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “First, they asked way more questions about the budget than I thought they would. Like I’m not the budget person, ask Raphael! That’s literally not my job.” I notice I’m yelling for no reason and ratchet down my volume. “Then one of them had a question about this video we’re showing at the launch—and this is the part that’s on me, because I’m pretty sure Shawna did tell me about that question. I almost definitely wrote it down, but I guess I lost that sticky note somewhere…”

Andy tucks his lips between his teeth, barely suppressing his smile—the smug jerk. I give him a glare that says I don’t want a lecture on organization right now.

“Anyway, the worst part was actually after the presentation was over. There’s this trustee named Jeff who’s a biologist and really old—not to be ageist or anything but I feel like it’s a salient part of the story. And he came up to me and was all like, Good job today, honey. I bet your parents are really proud of you.” I’m looking down at my hands as I continue. “Then he said it’s a shame I didn’t pursue a real science career because I might not be challenging myself enough here, or something like that.”

When I glance up again, Andy is looking at me with focus. He doesn’t respond—at least not yet—because he’s not listening to respond; he’s listening to understand.

“I think he meant it as a compliment,” I explain, “but it hit a nerve. Like… this is a science career. I’ve always wanted to bring science to kids, and I’m doing it. It just really made me feel bad. And who talks to a professional colleague like that? I bet your parents are proud of you. Are you kidding me? There’s no way he would’ve said that if I was a 26-year-old man instead of a 26-year-old woman. And the worst part is, I was so shocked that I just froze with this nervous smile on my face. I hate confrontation so much. I don’t even know what I would do differently if I could go back. I guess I just have to let it go.”

“If you want to let it go, then let it go,” he says plainly. “But if you want to be mad, then be mad. You have every right.”

“No, no.” I wave a hand between us. “Being mad is just going to make my night worse and bring you down with me. Just… that guy sucks.”

“That guy sucks,” Andy affirms. “Fuck him. The museum is lucky to have you. And even the biggest asshole on the board realizes it, even if he says it in a condescending asshole way.”

It’s a sweet thing to say, but I’m feeling so deflated from the whole endeavor that I can’t bring myself to offer more than a half-smile.

Something about the look on my face has Andy reaching over to take both of my hands in his. “Hey, don’t be sad, okay? I’ll make dinner. I have pizza dough—how about pizza and a movie?”

And I guess I’m more tired than I realized, because I feel tears starting to prick at the back of my eyes. But I am not going to cry over something as stupid as this. So I fight them back and say, “That would be great. Thanks.”

Andy squeezes my hands once before letting go and heading into the kitchen.

It occurs to me then that maybe I’m not tired at all. Maybe I’m just not used to having someone take care of me every day, even in these small ways.

“What do you want to watch?” he asks as he turns the dial on the oven.

I clear my throat, then ask, “Is it masochistic that I’m in the mood for sci-fi after the day I had?”

“I thought I was supposed to be the masochist here.”

“Well, you did just voluntarily subject yourself to that story about my day, so you’re right, you’re still number one.”